


I Will Not Have Thee Be Alone

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Book 7: An Echo in the Bone, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 21:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11388483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: On the way to the graveyard and Mrs Bug's funeral, Jamie reflects on the lives that he has witnessed and the lives that have been changed by the events on Frasers' Ridge.





	I Will Not Have Thee Be Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Jamie's perspective on the events at the beginning of An Echo in the Bone. 
> 
> All Gaelic dialogue and the prayers belong strictly to Diana Gabaldon.

 

The morning of the funerals dawned bright and clear and cold.

 

It was a bitter, biting cold that burrowed under clothes and into teeth and ears and mouth, making each step up the trail to the small graveyard an effort.

 

The coffins, placed open and side by side, were pulled on a sledge by Clarence and a little black jenny named Puddin’. Jamie can feel the warmth of Clarence’s nose pressing inquisitively against the back of his hand, hot air billowing out in spurts against the cold of his palm.

 

Rearing out above them is the graveyard, quietly desolate in the chill December air. The grave markers stand in jagged shadows against the billowing whiteness of the sky and he feels a tremor that has nothing to do with the cold arch across his chest.

 

_Malva Christie._

_In the bloody aftermath of her death he had almost forgotten the slap of her accusations. Had almost forgotten the look of horror that had etched itself onto Claire’s face, a look of accusatory horror burning bright within amber irises before freezing and her fleeing, face set in a grim line that had shown him for a moment just how much it cost her to hear those words._

_Had almost forgotten the girl herself, sitting on a kitchen stool in apparent mute innocence, fingers feverishly pleating her apron in an attempt not to look at him._

_Had almost forgotten the weight of her as he had hauled her to her feet, gripping her elbows, forcing her to look at him, though she struggled and cast her eyes down, refusing to accept his wish._

_‘So, what mischief is this ye’re about, a nighean na ghalladh?’ The question had been spoken quietly, but still she had flinched at the insult; whole body trembling under his grip. He had no time or patience for young and foolish girls who accused him unfairly of whoremongering in front of his wife. No time or patience either for young and foolish girls luring him into their rooms, their intentions as plain as their small, pert noses and calculating grey eyes …_

Dear God, he hasn’t thought of Geneva Dunsany in years and does not mean to do so now.

 

Shaking the thoughts of Geneva and Malva away, he looks for Ian. He is worried for the lad, worried for the blank expression that seemed to engulf his nephew, now striding on ahead with Rollo trotting at his heels. His heart twists at the sight of him, tall and lean like a willow sapling, his shaved head covered in one of Lizzie’s woollen caps. The narrow shoulders that he remembers grasping back in Edinburgh as the boy cried and vomited from a mixture of shock and alcohol are hunched from cold, whole body drawing itself inwards as if by doing so, he will be protected from the true extent of his actions.

 

The edge of the pine-fringed clearing looms into view as they crest the hill, Clarence’s breath warm against the tugging ache of the cold.

 

The wind howls in welcome, whipping and echoing eerily through the trees. Soft patches of mud stained grass are visible through the half-melted snow where the cairns and crosses that marked the final resting places of the dead stand and he crosses himself, lips moving in silent prayer for the souls they were about to commit to an eternal life beneath the earth.

 

‘ _May the road rise up to meet you,_

_May the wind be always at your back,_

_May the sun shine warm upon your face;_

_The rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,_

_May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.’_

 

It was a blessing that he remembers his Mother whispering to him amid the pain and blood and heartbreak of her labour. He had slipped away from the watchful eyes of Jenny and William and crept up to the laird’s room, feet tentative on the floorboards of this hallowed room where the children were not usually permitted entry.

 

_She had been lying in a tangle of sheets in the laird’s bed, the contractions eased for just a moment. The room had been bathed in shadowed, candlelit darkness, only the glint of a pottery jug and the starched white cambric of the midwife’s cap reflecting any light._

_He remembers her hair, a wild mane of roan and copper and cinnabar streaming out over the pillow, her face pale and taut with pain, her cheekbones stark against the sweat soaked skin. Only her eyes seemed alive and he had shrunk from her, an unspoken terror gripping his chest at the sight of this haggard vision that had once been his mother._

_Her eyes, the Mackenzie eyes that had been more grey than blue had creased into small blue triangles alight with tenderness at the sight of him hovering in the doorway._

_‘Jamie? Mo mac?’ She had reached out a tremulous hand to him, a hand that shuddered suddenly under the weight of a contraction catching her unseen and her body had been pushed backwards against the headboard, reaching blindly to grip the midwife’s hand._

_He had run to her then; running, reaching for her other hand, ignoring the midwife, wanting nothing more than to clamber up onto the bed and curl into her chest as he had done when he was a bairn._

_‘Mo bhalaich’, she had murmured in a sudden, heartbroken whisper; pulling him close to her.  He had heard her heart beating fast as quick fingers, swollen from pregnancy card themselves through his hair; its beats fluttering, failing, rising against his cheek as he clung to her, weeping his sorrow into her hair._

‘Jamie?’

 

The weight of a hand on his elbow slowly brings him back. He finds that he is shivering, standing stock still before the graveyard, taking in the two fresh graves, the earth dark and brutal against the snow. He does not need to look round to understand the note of trepidation in Claire’s voice.

 

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he turns, hand reaching for the dirk sheathed at his belt.

 

The party before him watch on in silence as he takes in Arch Bug standing on the fringe of the group; lined face haggard with unspoken grief. The lines that run from nose to mouth, like gullies in wet clay tremble slightly, his lips working silently as he takes in the body that was once his wife.

 

_How can he explain?_

_How can he possibly put into words the hard knot of grief and denial that had formed in his throat and refused to move? Arch with his missing fingers, could not have fired a pistol right handed and yet… Oh God, no… Not that.._

 

He feels Claire move closer, their hands gripping, squeezing for a silent moment. On the other side of the sledge Ian stands, head bowed, Rollo’s head pressed into the palm of his hand. The yellow wolf eyes are soft with sadness and as he watches, the dog reaches up to lick his master’s palm, tongue quivering in the cold.

 

His heart twists at the sight and Claire’s hand tightens within his. He returns the gesture, fingers trembling.

 

Swallowing thickly, he begins to recite the death dirge. The words come slowly, thickly, making him miss Roger Mac and the sense of calm, quiet order that he brought to funerals.

 

_Lord that they may be safe!_

Claire’s hand presses into his again, fingers curling, her voice caught tentatively on the chill of the wind.

 

‘ _Thou goest home this night to thy home of winter,_

_To thy home of autumn, of spring and of summer;_

_Thou goest home this night to thy perpetual home,_

_To thine eternal bed, to thine eternal slumber.’_

In the silent chill between the verses, Rollo lifts his head and howls out his grief to the faint, white sun pulling valiantly between the snow filled clouds.

* * *

_**Fin** _

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticism, questions etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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